


The Hackathon

by another_Hero



Series: Dulce [2]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: F/F, Gen, a town event, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24458296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/another_Hero/pseuds/another_Hero
Summary: "Come on, baby," Dulce said over ice cream, "I want to see your town!"wherein Ronnie invites the florist to a fundraiser for the Schitt's Creek curling team uniforms.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer vs Ronnie Lee, Ray Butani & Ronnie Lee, Ronnie Lee & the town, Ronnie Lee/the florist she KNOWS
Series: Dulce [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765873
Comments: 21
Kudos: 32





	The Hackathon

She'd been on five dates with Dulce, and all of them had happened in Elmdale except for a dinner that never left Ronnie's house and a night out dancing in Elm Glen, so she knew it was coming. Didn't mean she was thrilled. "Come on, baby," Dulce said over ice cream, "I want to see your town!"

"You come over," said Ronnie, "I'll take you for a walk around the block, you'll see it all."

Dulce pointedly rolled her eyes.

Dulce was going to win, obviously. She didn't give up easily, and it was time, and also, there was the small problem that anything Dulce wanted, Ronnie wanted to give it to her. She expected that to pass, but she got less certain by the day, practically by the text. Still, it was no fun to go down without a fight. "I can take you to the cafe," Ronnie said with a smirk, though she was already planning the real date in her mind. "Make you think twice before you ever come down again."

"Or," said Dulce, "you could invite me to your poker night."

"Oh, honey," said Ronnie with a firm shake of her head, and she registered the pet name but pressed on, "this is _way_ too new for poker night, and you are _way_ too nice to be subjected to Bob right now." They'd already discussed Bob-right-now. "Tell you what, next weekend's the hackathon."

"Girl," said Dulce, "you code? With what time?"

"Nah," said Ronnie, "it's the fundraiser for the new curling team uniforms. I don't think Jocelyn knows what a hackathon is."

"You're bringing me down to raise funds for you?"

"Everybody will be there." Ronnie pointed at Dulce with her ice cream spoon. "So you can meet Ray, and Ray can meet you, and you can both stop asking." She wasn't entirely sure how that would go, actually. Ray would get Dulce's phone number, that was certain, and he would use it, too. And Dulce would arrive ready to be pleased; she was good about that, so far.

Dulce's foot knocked against hers; Dulce's face went amused, almost mischievous. "So what do you do at a curling team fundraiser?"

"You eat pickles," Ronnie said archly. She was determined against any show of amusement; however absurd it was, she didn't like to laugh at Schitt's Creek with people who didn't know it.

Dulce frowned and tilted her head, spoon hanging out of her mouth. It was the sort of thing Ronnie could allow to distract her. "Is that a euphemism?"

Ray, of course, was _thrilled_. _I am so pleased she will be able to taste my pickles!_ he texted her. _No innuendo intended, of course._

Ronnie entered three kinds of pickles in the competition: the mix of ginger and blueberries she had relied on for years to handle her overproductive bushes, radioactive-pink radishes, and the dilly beans her mom had always made. They were all in her basement already; curling season and pickling season didn't exactly overlap. So instead of preparing for the hackathon by sanitizing cans in her kitchen, she was planning escapes from overly-curious townies, figuring out an outfit that would look date enough for Dulce but casual enough not to draw comment, and prepping the plausibly-disguised drinks she would take for herself, Dulce, Ray, and also Roland and Jocelyn, to bribe her way out of any potential trouble. The morning of the event, she filled a bag with jars, and she and the rest of the curling team packed into the town hall to set up tables and decorations. The other people contributing pickles filed in, and David Rose, who would be selling cheese and wine and offering a percentage to the curling team, prepared his usual space, and plenty of residents who were bored or committed to catching a jar of their usual favorites showed up early, and Ronnie had only just gotten her own pickles onto a table when she felt a hand on her shoulder and then a kiss on her cheek. "You weren't lying, huh," Dulce said.

Ronnie wasn't sure what she might have been lying about, but she said, "Of course not," just as a matter of principle, before she landed a proper kiss on Dulce's mouth. "This is my town."

"I see," said Dulce, amused. "What else have you got to do?"

Ronnie shook her head. "I'm all ready for you," she said. "White, red, rosé?" Dulce was a florist; obviously she drank rosé. But Ronnie had manners. Still, she handed over the water bottle she'd planned on, an old plastic one with the curling team logo on the side, and she pulled out another for herself. "All right," she said. "Drink every time someone thinks using spices makes their food fancy. Drink for every pickle that claims to be an old Schitt family recipe. Drink if Bob mentions Gwen. Good?"

Dulce clinked her water bottle against Ronnie's with a full-on smile. She didn't seem nervous at all. She could take anyone here, of course, wits or fists. But how easily she accepted newness, that was a marvel. Ronnie wondered how long they had to stay here before they could sneak off to Bob's bench--or to her house, she supposed. Sure, she was captain of the curling team, but this was Jocelyn's event, really. They couldn't leave yet, though, they hadn't even seen--

"You must be Dulce!" Ray exclaimed. "I've heard so much about you. I haven't seen Ronnie so enthusiastic since Maelyn won The Voice."

Ronnie glared at him, but Dulce's laugh cut through her ire like vinegar. Ray offered his arm, and Dulce, Ronnie's literal girlfriend--well, at least, her literal date--took it. "You know," Ronnie said, "I brought you wine, Ray, but if you're going to run off with my girl, I'll drink it myself."

Ray raised his hands to his face in delight. "I was raised to be an excellent host," he informed her as a nonapology. "But more importantly, does the wine come with a game? I was thinking we should drink every time Jocelyn looks concerned and every time Gwen says something pretentious."

They were good rules. "Yes," Ronnie said, "I like that. Also anytime someone thinks you should be impressed that they used spices, and every old Schitt family recipe."

"And when Bob talks about Gwen," Dulce reminded them.

"Oh, that's a standing rule," Ray assured her. "And even if it weren't, honestly, we wouldn't be able to help ourselves."

They circled the tables. Plenty of people were standing by their pickles, hoping to induce their friends to vote for them. Ronnie didn't need to do that: everyone knew which pickles were hers and exactly what she'd do if they didn't vote for her. She watched Twyla grimace on a blueberry--poor thing, ginger was probably too much for her--and put two coins in the jar anyway.

What she did _not_ expect, ambling a few steps behind Ray and Dulce, was to run into them chatting with Patrick Brewer. He was in a horrendous pair of plaid curling pants. "It's not a costume party, Brewer," she said by way of introduction. But more importantly, he was arranging a plate of cornichons. "You--entered the contest?"

"Ronnie!" Dulce said, grasping at her elbow, and honestly, this whole experience had been much more charming a moment ago. "You didn't show me any pictures of Patrick's wedding! And--David? David. It turned out really nice!"

"All thanks to you," Ronnie said, but the warmth wasn't there. "Patrick, you've never entered the hackathon before."

"I just wanted to support the curling team," he said with feigned innocence. "You know, just because Alexis isn't in town anymore doesn't mean--"

"Yeah, yeah, we appreciate your support," she said dryly. "Cucumbers?"

"It's my mom's recipe. She uses coriander."

"Drink," Ronnie said to Ray and Dulce, and they all did. 

Patrick blinked. "Try a pickle, Ronnie," he said.

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Come on, you can roast me a lot more specifically if you know what they taste like."

She didn't like the man, but he had a point. She picked up a cucumber and took a bite; it had a good crunch. She lifted the other half to Dulce's lips for her to taste, let her lick the last bit of vinegar from her fingers, and it was _good_. Good, except that these were Patrick Brewer's pickles, and Dulce was telling him, "These are delicious!"

 _You haven't tried my pickles,_ Ronnie wanted to tell her, but that was petulant even in her head; it was beneath Ronnie. "Not bad," she told Patrick. "But that jar doesn't have any name on it but mine, and that isn't going to change today." The hackathon trophy was a jar Jocelyn had superglued to a block of wood; the winner--which was to say, Ronnie--got to sign it.

"Her signatures are very large," Ray added. "Even if you did win, it's possible there wouldn't be room."

"I don't know, Ronnie," Patrick said. "Three different kinds of pickles, you kind of split the vote."

Twyla tossed a dollar into the jar by Patrick's pickles. Ronnie glared at her.

"They're all better than yours," Ronnie assured Patrick. Not her finest comeback, but it had the advantage of being true.

Dulce had been watching them like a ping-pong match, but she tugged Ray with one of her arms and Ronnie with the other. "So you, like, have _beef_ ," she said to Ronnie. "Was I not supposed to be nice to him?"

"I don't need you being mean to anybody on my behalf," Ronnie assured her. It was a lot more delightful to be with Dulce when she wasn't praising Patrick Brewer.

"She doesn't like having to share the position of Competent Gay," Ray declared.

Ronnie rolled her eyes. It wasn't like the man was a _threat_. "I wouldn't mind it if he were competent," she shot back. To Dulce she said, "I mean, you met him. He's, like...a saltine. A human saltine."

"Very white?" Dulce gestured around the room of townies as if to say, _And?_

"I was going for bland, but sure. _She uses coriander_."

Dulce giggled, but Ronnie was busy debating the merits of a trip to the nearest ATM to stuff the votes for her dilly beans--those were the pickles that had always won, except in 2014, when the blueberries had pulled off a surprise upset. She'd brought the twenty-five dollars she intended to donate; she would pack them into her jar at the last minute to avoid any tampering, as she always did. But there was nothing _stopping_ her running to Elmdale for more cash--Ray was having a great time taking care of Dulce, and honestly, it was all for the curling team anyway. She had a responsibility to give what she could.

She was figuring out the politest way to make her exit when Roland arrived.

She knew it was Roland, obviously, because nobody else would have come to the hackathon in the high school's raccoon mascot costume. She looked over at Dulce and Ray. They were drinking, in sync; whether this was related to a rule or not, she joined them.

Jocelyn approached Roland immediately, and, "I'd call that concern," Ronnie said, and they all drank again. "That's Roland," she told Dulce.

"You didn't mention he was a furry."

"I don't have time to list Roland's kinks," she informed Dulce, but then she took pity on Jocelyn. She couldn't see any reason why Roland _shouldn't_ be here dressed as a mascot, besides that he wouldn't be able to drink, so he'd probably enjoy it less, but everyone else would enjoy it more. "Rollie," Jocelyn was saying when Ronnie got to them, "raccoons aren't even the mascot for the curling team."

"What about that cross-team solidarity?" Roland countered. Ronnie would have to stop teaching him words.

"Roland," Ronnie said very seriously, "you can stay if you dance. If you aren't doing a mascot dance, you can't wear a mascot costume."

He tilted his raccoon head. "Yeah, that's fair. But then I get to announce the winner."

That had already been agreed on. It wasn't ideal, but everyone on the curling team had entered the contest, so someone had to do it. Ronnie gave a magnanimous nod, and Roland obediently started dancing. "Vote early, vote often," he encouraged Gwen and the pastor, who were coming by--oh, shit. She glanced around the room and then ran over to Ray and Dulce.

"Have you seen Bob?"

"Ronnie! No, I've just been offering Dulce samples of my pickled mustard greens." He brought something different every year; sometimes they were truly delicious, but it was hit or miss. "Why do you need Bob?"

Ronnie glanced pointedly over her shoulder at Gwen, leaning on the pastor and holding hands with Carpenter Jake.

"Oh, dear," said Ray.

"Is that Gwen?" said Dulce.

Ronnie gave an exaggerated nod.

"Is your life always like this?" Dulce was grinning widely. "I'm honestly having a _great_ time. I feel like I'm watching you direct a very bad play."

"Gee, thanks."

Dulce tossed an arm around her and spoke into the side of her head: "Oh, calm down, I'm sure if you were directing an actual play, it would be much better."

"Damn right," Ronnie grumbled. "What's Brewer up to? I don't trust him." 

"Patrick," said Ray, looking back, "is inviting people to sample his wares."

"That smarmy--"

"Speaking of sampling wares," said Dulce, "I haven't tried any of yours yet."

They made their way back to the table with Ronnie's pickles on it. "I'll just yell!" Roland shouted, and Ronnie turned her head to see Jocelyn struggling with the sound system. An electronic squeak cut the air. "Drink," Ronnie instructed when she saw Jocelyn's face.

After all that nonsense, Ronnie was perfectly happy to hang out by her own pickles--it had nothing to do with drawing attention and votes to one-up Patrick Brewer and everything to do with spending time with her girlfriend and her good friend instead of putting out fires at a town event. Feeding Dulce was immensely satisfying; she made the most approving faces and sounds, and Ronnie thought she could surely come up with an excuse for them to leave before the end of the event, but then Ray reminded them of his presence. And they all made progress on their wine, and Dulce was just asking Ray how he was _so nice_ and he was just telling her, "I like almost everyone. It's my greatest professional asset!" when Bob jogged up to her table like rain to a parade. "Hey Ronnie," he said despondently. "Ray."

"Hey Bob," said Ronnie. "Have a pickle."

"Oh, that's all right," he said. Shit. 

Dulce leaned forward and reached out a hand and introduced herself, which also allowed Ronnie the opportunity to check out her ass. It had been a taxing day, she pointed out to herself. What could possibly do more to make her feel better? Wine, she remembered, wine would do as well, and Bob had undoubtedly brought up Gwen by now. She took a drink and checked into the conversation.

"Is there high demand for car repair in a town this size?"

She was so good. Maybe she would follow Ronnie into the closet where they kept the town's four traffic cones and various banners. 

Jocelyn came by to collect her three jars of cash votes. "Hey!" Ronnie called, and she shoved her twenty-five bucks into one of them. She drank down the last sip of her wine at the harried look on Jocelyn's face. She should have offered to help with the counting, but everyone else was still sober, so it was probably best that she leave it to them. She put an arm around Dulce's soft waist and tugged her back, away from Bob, who could get somebody else's date to make him feel better.

"You're making me be so rude!" Dulce protested, but she was smiling.

"Bob will blame me." It was the whole truth and nothing but. "Is it what you expected?"

"Kind of," said Dulce. "Except you care about them more."

"What?"

"More than I expected."

"I don't know where you got that impression."

Ray reappeared; Ronnie hadn't missed him, but she wasn't mad to see him come back. "A wager, Dulce? I have to bet that Patrick will win. You know, we used to live together."

"Ray!" Ronnie objected.

"He's a salesman," Ray said sensibly. "You're the only contractor in town, so your work basically sells itself."

Ronnie might not have put it exactly like that.

"I can't take that bet," Dulce said faux-sadly, her voice just hiding a laugh, "because I also have to bet on Patrick."

"I _invite_ you into _my town_ ," Ronnie shrieked, and the laugh bubbled over, and Dulce fell against her giggling and stayed there.

"I'll take your bet, Ray," Ronnie said around Dulce's hair. "How much are we in for?"

"Well, when I was hoping to bet against Dulce, I was going to say the winner would treat the loser to a glass of wine at the new place in Elmdale. Would you like to go to Elmdale for a glass of wine?"

Ronnie's eyes narrowed. "You're asking out my date?"

"I want to be friends with anyone who's important to you!" Ray said, sincere as a clandestine drinking game could make him. Dulce tilted her head up to make the kind of face Ronnie had seen her make at some kittens a child had been selling in a park.

"Settle down," she said to both of them. "Ray, I'm not driving to Elmdale with you. Wine night in town."

"You already took the bet!" Ray said gleefully. "You're driving to Elmdale with me!"

"Listen up everyone!" Roland called through the raccoon mask. "It's time to announce the winner of this year's hackathon!" Most people who'd brought pickles had packed them up by now, but not Ronnie; when she won, then people wanted to come over and taste them. 

"It's a big surprise!" Roland called, and she couldn't tell whether he was being sarcastic, and anyway, it was Roland; she knew better than to expect him to talk sense. "The winner, for the first time"--fuck--but it could be the radishes--"is Twyla's pickled watermelon rinds! An old Schitt family recipe!"

"Drink!" Ray exclaimed. Ronnie didn't have any wine left. She opened the one she'd brought for Roland and drank from that.

_Ray's been texting me_ , Dulce messaged her a few days later. _He still wants to go to the wine bar. Apparently they have good cheese too. You free to join us Thursday night?_

Ray could just have made this a group text, Ronnie wanted to grumble. But it sounded genuinely fun, the three of them and none of the other nonsense of town. _Ray would just pack me into his trunk if I said no_ , she wrote back. 

_Yeah, yeah_ , Dulce texted. _Complain about your people all you want. I'm wise to you, Ms Lee._

**Author's Note:**

> The concept (and membership) of the Schitt's Creek curling team was cribbed from [in the hack](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21025205) by thingswithwings, a perfect fic which I wholeheartedly recommend. A lot of people contributed ideas to this, including this_is_not_nothing, likerealpeopledo, Distractivate (responsible for the "hackathon" joke which is the biggest source of amusement in my whole life), snowvitamins, houdini74, doublel27, and also probably more people whose names I forgot to write down at the time because I got distracted by liking their ideas, sorry. The wine bar comes from [Putting Down Roots](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24263344) by this_is_not_nothing, also known as "pouty Patrick," in which Dulce, loml, also gets a mention.


End file.
